Expatriation Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It was no use.Same old shit.
The trap was, just like last time
all set to grab, to ruin things.
He had fallen that one time
and, when they found him
all bets were off, forever, finito.

But then, when the machinery,
the budget-driven county awoke,
he had absconded, could not
no matter what, be found.

Today, he sits on a tall stool
in what they call the Gringo Bar,
in hot and fucking dusty Nogales.
Not one of them has pried the secret
about the greenback stash from him.

He loves his life within the family
of people, compadres, down to earth.
And wonders if the day will come
when someone adds a bit too much
of special sauce that kills the tongue, senor.